Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

He could sympathize, given that the same war waged within him.

That such a conflict would visit Rana Desai, Reyes was certain. What he did not know was—when that time came—how it would affect her actions and feelings toward him. Would she be an enemy or an ally?

It was a question—like countless others that continued to plague him—for which Reyes had no answer.

42

As always, it was one big party on the gambling deck of the Omari-Ekonand, as usual, Cervantes Quinn was not on the invite list.

Walking behind Sakud Armnoj and preceding Zett Nilric, Quinn made his way through the room and tried to ignore the atmosphere of merriment surrounding him. Music provided a festive backdrop, blending with the voices and laughter of patrons all around the room. Money in assorted currencies and denominations changed hands; a layer of smoke lingered about the gaming parlor, along with a mixture of odors generated by the plethora of substances various beings were inhaling into their lungs—or what might pass for lungs in nonhumanoid species; more than one patron moved about the room with a drink of some kind, reminding Quinn that it had been some time since he last had partaken of his favorite beverage.

Lucky bastards,he thought, thinking again of how fortunate Tim Pennington was at the moment. Upon the Rocinante’s return to Vanguard and still upset over the string of events that had unseated his plans to visit the colonists on Boam II, the journalist had declined Quinn’s offer to accompany him to see Ganz, opting instead for a visit to Tom Walker’s place and, as he had put it, “Life.”

“I’ve counted fourteen health and safety code violations since we boarded,” Armnoj said, holding close to his chest the black briefcase which seemed more like an extension of his own body and doing his best to avoid coming into contact with anyone he passed. “This place is a hive of disease and pestilence, to say nothing of its utter moral depravity.”

“Shut up,” Quinn said, the Zakdorn’s perpetually squeaky voice once more threatening to give him a headache to go with his bruised ribs and his sore jaw. Five minutes, he figured. Five minutes, and this putrid, annoying excuse for a sentient being would finally be out of his life.

As they passed one of the roulette tables, Quinn was forced to step to his left in order to avoid one guest who even by his standards seemed to have enjoyed far too much of the apparently free-flowing spirits. His movement nearly made him brush up against a sultry Orion woman, one of several employed by Ganz as part of his ship’s “entertainment staff,” who in turn smiled at him as she gave him a frank visual once-over from head to toe. She apparently was unaffected by the bandage over his left eye or the swelling along the right side of his jaw—souveniers from his short visit with Broon. Despite himself, Quinn nodded his head in greeting.

“Stop gawking, Quinn,” Zett said from behind him, his low menacing voice somehow managing to carry over the bustle of the gambling deck. “You know Mr. Ganz doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

It was the first thing the Nalori had said to him since meeting him at the Ekon’s entry ramp. Quinn had been tempted to bring up the whole mess with Broon, but figured the assassin already had received a report from his hired minion. He had half-expected Zett to gut him like a fish the moment he stepped through the airlock, but was reassured by the fact that—for the moment, anyway—Ganz still had need of his services.

Let’s hope my luck isn’t running out.

Quinn offered a sidelong glance toward the Nalori, noting that his dark, dapper suit served only to make his obsidian complexion seem even more sinister than normal. “It’s not like you to wear black this early in the day. The regular maitre d’call in sick?” Though Zett said nothing in reply, Quinn could tell by the narrowing of his eyes that the comment had achieved its intended goal. The trader smiled in satisfaction, saying nothing else as he followed Armnoj up the stairs from the gambling deck to Ganz’s private balcony.

The Orion merchant prince awaited him, lying in repose atop the cushions and pillows that adorned the raised dais dominating the upper tier of the gambling deck. Dressed in a maroon toga that complemented his emerald green skin, Ganz propped himself up on his left elbow while holding a silver goblet in his enormous right hand. An Andorian zhen,wearing only a thin wrap of gold fabric that left to the imagination precious little of her otherwise nude figure, lay next to him, feeding Ganz small pieces of exotic-looking fruit.

Quinn’s stomach chose that moment to remind him he had yet to eat today.

He knew enough to hang back, standing just in front of Zett and waiting his turn for an audience with Ganz. Experience had taught him that if the crime boss was anything, he was a stickler for his particular brand of protocol. Putting his hands in his pockets, Quinn looked over to see Morikmol, one of the Orion’s associates, regarding him with his customary expression of annoyance and repressed disgust.

The thug stepped forward at their approach, indicating for Armnoj to stand between the pair of black obelisks situated before Ganz. The Zakdorn hastened to comply, his usual bluster all but gone now as he stood in front of his employer.

“Mr. Ganz,” Armnoj said, holding his right hand out in greeting while using his left to clutch his briefcase close to his chest, “I can’t tell you what a privilege it is for me to meet with you. It truly has been too long.” The words came so fast that Quinn was sure the accountant would keel over from oxygen deprivation.

Ganz said nothing for several moments, instead taking a long pull from whatever beverage filled his goblet. When he did speak, it was with his usual low, rumbling tenor, though his expression denoted that already he was bored with this particular interaction. “Armnoj, I have to admit, you never cease to amaze me. How is it you’ve been able to survive out there on the fringes after all this time?”

His posture straightening, Armnoj’s chest seemed to swell with pride as he replied, “Well, I have to tell you, it’s been no easy feat, and there was no small amount of obstacles in our way just getting here. Why, just the—”

“It was a rhetorical question,” Ganz said. “Did you bring your records?”

Nodding, the Zakdorn held up his briefcase. “Right here. As you know, all of my files are encoded with a multi-quad encryption algorithm that will thwart any attempts at unauthorized access. I designed the software myself, including a self-regenerating cipher that allows for—”

“Nobody cares.” Ganz’s expression was morphing from disinterest to annoyance. “Just unlock the files, please.”

Armnoj cleared his throat, straightening his posture in an attempt to shrug off having his figurative knees taken out from under him. “Yes, of course.” Looking around, he asked, “Might I be provided with a place to work?”

Indicating where the Zakdorn was standing before taking another drink from his cup, Ganz replied, “You’ve got it.”

The accountant offered a haughty sniff, displeased with the way he was being treated. It took physical effort on Quinn’s part not to laugh, and a quick glance to his left told him that a smile even tugged at the corners of the irrepressible Zett’s mouth.

“It will just take a moment,” Armnoj said as he cradled the briefcase in his left arm while using his free hand to tap an eighteen-digit combination into the small keypad molded into the case’s handle. A few seconds later, he opened the case and Quinn got his first look at its contents. It contained what looked to be a nondescript gray portable computer interface, with a display monitor installed inside the case’s lid.

Taking a square yellow data card from a small pocket to the right of the monitor, the accountant entered another long string of commands and the screen activated. As everyone watched, Armnoj replaced the data card with a red one and repeated the process of tapping instructions into the computer.

Ganz’s sigh was audible across the deck. “Stars are dying out, Mr. Armnoj.”

The bookkeeper did not reply for several seconds, until a rhythmic series of beeps emitted from the briefcase. “There we are,” he said, his face brightening into the Zakdorn equivalent of a smile. From where he stood, Quinn could now see that the computer monitor was displaying a rolling screen of data, orderly columns and rows depicting text and numbers in varying colors, whatever pattern they might be employing far beyond his ability to decipher.

“This is everything?” Ganz asked. “I’m sure you won’t mind if my staff here verifies your figures.”

Armnoj nodded. “Well, why certainly. I think you’ll find everything to be in order, down to the last credit, including a comprehensive ledger detailing every transaction I’ve made on your behalf since you first employed me. The cross-reference database should prove most helpful, as it includes journal entries with locations, dates and times, transaction origin and destination information, all meticulously organized and capable of being displayed via any extract criteria you might—”

“Thank you.” Looking to Morikmol, Ganz indicated for his henchman to take the case from the accountant. As Armnoj surrendered the unit, the Orion added, “I think we’re done here.”

Clearing his throat again, the Zakdorn nodded rapidly several times. “Very well. What would you like me to do now?”

“Disappear,” Ganz said, and Quinn saw the look he exchanged with Zett as the Nalori reached beneath his jacket and extracted a stout silver cylinder with a single red button set into it. Without aplomb, Zett pressed the button.

Quinn’s eyes widened in realization. Holy…

The air hummed and crackled as the obelisks flanking Armnoj glowed to life. Searing white energy spat forth from each of the obsidian stanchions to wash over the Zakdorn. His body was obscured by the blinding flash of light for an instant, allowing the accountant one final befuddled look before his form dissolved. Then the light was gone, and with it Sarkud Armnoj.

“What the hell?” Quinn blurted, a faint lingering scent of ozone the only residue of the bookkeeper’s passing. Stepping forward, but taking care not to move between the obelisks, he directed a stunned look at Ganz. “I don’t get it. You told me he was valuable!”

His expression remaining neutral, the Orion replied, “Actually, what I said was that his information was valuable. As for him? He was whiny and self-important, like most Zakdorns. Why do you think I had him banished to that backwater mudball? He was more trouble than he was worth.” His brow furrowing, he asked, “Didn’t you notice?”

Relieved to at last be free of the irritating accountant but feeling more than a bit put off by the harsh and arguably unnecessary method used to expedite his departure, Quinn’s main concern at the moment was that he might be joining Armnoj sometime in the next few minutes. A quick glance told him that Zett still was holding the small control device in his right hand.

As if reading his mind, Ganz actually released a chuckle, though to Quinn it sounded more like the sound a predator might make upon finding its next meal. “Relax, Quinn. You at least still have some use to me.”

“Glad to hear it,” Quinn replied. As relief washed over him, the pilot was caught by a sudden, unexpected thought: I wonder if Sniffy gets everything in the will.

The Orion held up his glass. “Other men might have tried to take advantage of the situation I placed you in, maybe taken a shot at learning where some of my money was stored; you might have helped yourself to whatever you could cram into that pitiful excuse for a ship you fly. You didn’t. That goes a long way with me.” He offered a mock salute with the goblet before taking another long pull from its still mysterious contents.

Holding his hands out, Quinn affected his best smile. “Mama raised no fools, Ganz.”

“That’s good,” the merchant prince replied. “Then you’ll know when you’re threatening to overstay your welcome.” Nodding in dismissal, the Orion added, “But don’t go too far. I might need you sooner than you think.”

I can’t wait.

Quinn said nothing as he preceded Zett down the stairs and back across the gambling deck. This time he ignored the gaming, drinking, and carousing taking place all around him, focusing instead on the fact that he still needed to deliver the data core from the Klingon sensor drone to T’Prynn, and the possibility that Zett might kill him before he made it back to the boarding ramp.

“I suppose you’ve figured out by now that Broon blew it,” Quinn said over his shoulder. “You always were the smartest one on Ganz’s payroll.”

Unsurprisingly, Zett offered no reply.

Quinn stopped, turning on his heel to face the Nalori. Regarding the assassin’s seemingly bottomless black eyes, the privateer did his best to hide his nervousness, knowing without doubt that his counterpart could kill him six different ways inside of ten seconds. If he was still alive right now, it was only because the normally unflappable Zett was still afraid of angering his employer.

“You could have told Ganz,” Zett said, his lips curving upward to offer a sinister smile while revealing a mouthful of gleaming, sharp teeth. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’m no snitch,” Quinn snapped. “This is between you and me.”

“Between you and me,” Zett repeated, “you were fortunate this time, Mr. Quinn.” His tone and expression betrayed nothing. “That won’t be the case forever.”

Though the contention between them had until this point been limited to verbal jousts, Zett had taken things to a new level. Despite that, neither of them would take their squabble to Ganz, to preserve their pride if nothing else. Quinn knew that the situation between him and the Nalori was far from over, and would likely remain unresolved until one of them was dead.

Maybe I can find someplace nice and peaceful to settle down and hide,Quinn thought. Like the Klingon homeworld.

43

“Do you people think I’m a physician or a geologist?”

On the all-too-frequent occasions throughout his career when he found himself faced with an autopsy, Ezekiel Fisher always harbored a single question: How had death come to claim the unfortunate soul whose remains were placed in his care?

Standing once more in the station’s morgue—his second time in as many weeks—and as he looked upon the body of yet another being whose life had ended amid the frozen wastes of Erilon, Fisher was confronted not only with the challenge of understanding how his latest patient had died, but also how it had lived, as well as what it had been in the first place.

“Well, I’msure not the geologist,” Xiong said, glancing up and offering a supportive smile to his newest colleague as they both regarded the body lying atop the examination table that was as much mineral as it was flesh.

This isn’t some kind of joke, is it?

Unlike the cold, polished metal of the table itself, the body’s dark shell—that was how Fisher thought of it, anyway—seemed to absorb the room’s ambient light. His attention once more was drawn to the head and face, which were devoid of features, and the conical limbs, which tapered to points rather than digits.

Xiong finally spoke. “What did the commodore tell you about this?”

“Just the basics,” Fisher replied, recounting in broad strokes the information Reyes had provided to him about the creature’s presence on Erilon and how it was believed to have been the same assailant that had decimated the original research team as well as Captain Zhao and his landing party from the Endeavour. His first look at the thing upon entering the morgue was enough to tell the doctor that it or its apparent twin—whatever the hell it might be—had killed the Denobulan, Bohanon, whose body he had examined the previous week.

Initial scans of the lifeless form lying atop the table also had proved interesting, revealing a startling absence of internal organs. Instead, the thing’s crystalline structure appeared more as an endoskeleton of some kind, sheathed in the obsidian dermal layer, which, according to the reports from the Erilon landing parties, had resisted even the most intensive phaser fire.

“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked, knowing that Xiong was probably under orders to provide only that information which was relevant to Fisher’s current needs as a medical examiner.

“We think it somehow telepathically communicated with various equipment across the planet,” the lieutenant replied, “including the weapons used against the Endeavour. I also saw it directly interfacing with computer consoles we found in ruins beneath the surface, something we’ve not been able to do.”

Stroking his beard as he listened, Fisher asked, “Any ideas how it might have done that?”

“Well, I have a thought,” Xiong said, “but it’s somewhat radical.”

“I have a high tolerance for ‘radical,’ son,” Fisher replied, offering a paternal smile. “Humor an old man, why don’t you?”

Drawing what the doctor presumed was a bolstering breath, Xiong said, “In short, I want to know whether this creature is able to establish a physical and mental connection with a crystalline lattice.”

“Oh,” Fisher replied, his eyebrows rising. “Is that all?”

Unfazed by the comment, the young officer continued, “Obviously we can’t learn that here, but if we can verify that this thing’s physiological structure lends itself to the controlled sending and receipt of electrical pulses beyond its body, then I’ll have something to work with.”

Considering that for a moment, Fisher nodded. “That’s a pretty tall order, but I suppose we can poke around and see what we see.”

At least I don’t have to worry about triggering any security alarms this time around, or worry about saying the wrong thing to the wrong people.

Unlike Dr. M’Benga, whom Reyes had not permitted to be briefed into the project, Xiong was certain to provide a storehouse of knowledge Fisher would find useful during his examination.

“Okay, then,” Xiong said. “What do we do now?”

Fisher shrugged as he turned to the instrument tray which he had positioned next to the examination table. “For starters, let’s see what it takes to get a look inside our friend here.”

Retrieving a laser scalpel from the instrument tray and adjusting it to its highest setting, Fisher trained the tool’s beam in a tight focus on the surface of the corpse’s torso. An immediate trail of thin smoke wafted from the site of incision as the beam bored without resistance into the dark, inflexible surface. The smoke held a bitter, metallic smell that lodged within his nostrils.

“Watch out,” he warned, jerking his head to the right to avoid the stream of viscous, dark gray fluid that sprayed from the opening he had created. The first spurt arced over the table and splattered onto the floor, though the flow’s pressure eased the next moment, finally ebbing to a slow but steady trickle that continued to ooze from the wound. Reaching to the tray for an emesis basin, the doctor placed it next to the wound and began collecting a sample of the fluid, which did not appear to be caustic—at least not immediately so.

“I don’t understand,” Xiong said, his brow creased in confusion. “This thing withstood phaser rifles set to maximum. Why is it so fragile now?” Taking the tray from Fisher, the lieutenant picked up a hand scanner from the nearby tray and waved it over the specimen. “It’s saturated with lyotropic nanostructures,” he said a moment later. “This stuff is liquid crystal.”

“Is it safe?” Fisher asked.

Xiong nodded. “It appears to be.”

“Fabulous,” the doctor said as he retrieved a grafting laser from the tray and used it to suture the wound he had created. “Interesting if this thing used it for blood.”

Waving the scanner over the prostrate form, Xiong nodded. “The liquid flows between the different components of its internal crystalline structure.” Looking up from the scanner, his expression was one of confusion. “Could the organs have decomposed into liquid form after death?”

Fisher retrieved the basin from Xiong, ever mindful not to spill any of the charcoal-colored liquid as he crossed the room to the computer workstation. Taking a sample of the fluid and placing it in a specimen tube, the doctor inserted it into a port at the base of the dynoscanner and activated the unit. He tapped a series of commands into the computer interface. Thanks to the work he already had performed on samples taken from the Denobulan, it did not take the computer long to complete its first, rudimentary scan.

“And there you are,” he said as the results he anticipated were displayed on the computer screen, “you crafty little meta-genome, you.”

Leaning closer, Xiong smiled. “Amazing, isn’t it? I never get tired of looking at it. It’s mesmerizing.” Clearing his throat, he stepped back from the workstation. “I guess that sounds rather foolish to you, Doctor.”

“Not at all, Lieutenant,” Fisher replied, smiling again. “Now, while the scanner is chewing on what we fed it, let’s take a look at getting an answer to your question.” He toggled a control on the computer interface and the viewer’s image shifted to that of a spectroscopic view of the fluid.

Pointing to the screen, Xiong said, “Look at that. There’s no electrical resistivity at all. The entire organism looks as though it could be a classical superconductor at room temperature.”

Fisher eyed the lieutenant. “Am I supposed to understand any of that?”

“Sorry, Doctor,” Xiong replied. “Ancient forms of power generation and regulation. Believe it or not, I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to on the subject while researching my theory.” Indicating the screen with a nod, he added, “If this is right, it’s an incredible find. What if electrical impulses channeled through this stuff resulted in a form of…I don’t know…fortifying or hardening of the skeleton? That might account for its resistance to phaser fire.”

“Well, that’ll be an interesting addition to our report,” Fisher said. “Now, given what Commodore Reyes has told me about the work being done by your friends down in the belly of this place, there’s something else I want to check.” Turning back to the computer interface, he flipped a series of switches and entered a pass code to give him access to the classified repository of information collected by Xiong and his team of research specialists.

“What are you doing?” the lieutenant asked, watching Fisher work.

“Cross-referencing our findings with the Vault’s databanks.” As he entered a final set of commands and initiated the search, it took only moments to match the DNA sample of his autopsy subject to another entry in the database.

Tholian. The simple word made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“I’ll be damned,” Xiong said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

The connection might well have been imperceptible to the unschooled eye; it may even have escaped a trained xenogeneticist at a passing glance. However, there was no denying the computer’s representation of the unmistakable similarities between the DNA of the mysterious alien and the Tholian sample from the database.

“Some sort of ancestral link,” Fisher said, wondering aloud. “Maybe going back millennia. A mutation of some kind, followed by thousands of years of evolution.”

“Or something more deliberate,” Xiong countered. “Genetic engineering. Eugenics, or something similar.”

Fisher considered the idea. “As good as anything I’ve got.” The question facing them now was whether or not this link between the Tholians and this newly discovered race had any bearing on the present situation with the Assembly and their current antagonistic attitude. Were the Tholians even aware of the connection?

It’d explain one helluva lot,Fisher conceded.

The computer beeped once more, and the doctor looked up to see that his search query had yielded an additional result. “What have we here?” he asked as he reviewed the data now scrolling across the screen.

“I don’t believe it,” Xiong said, leaning in closer in order to get a better look at the display.

Frowning, Fisher regarded the lieutenant. “Don’t believe what?”

Xiong pointed to the viewer. “The computer has identified similarities between part of the DNA coding from this new sample and a string of data from the carier wave that gave the station so much trouble months ago.”

Fisher stroked his beard as he absorbed that. He of course had been aboard the station when the odd alien transmission had wreaked havoc with so many of Vanguard’s sensitive systems, and Reyes had explained the nature of the signal—as much as was known, anyway—while briefing him about various other aspects of the station’s clandestine mission here in the Taurus Reach. Despite the limited amount of information which had been gleaned from the signal in the months since it had stopped transmitting, one thing that seemed to be accepted was that the carrier wave was in fact a type of communications protocol from a race never before encountered.

According to the data on the screen before him, however, Fisher could see that at least the station’s computer thought it might also be something more.

“That signal wasn’t transmitting DNA information,” he said. “We would have caught that early on.”

Xiong shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. We only had the original meta-genome samples from Ravanar at the time the signal was being studied, which are different in several respects from those we obtained from Erilon.” He paused, examining the data on the screen once more before continuing. “On the other hand,” he said, pointing to one column of information, “that string from the Erilon sample has some commonalities with the Ravanar specimens.”

Already seeing where the lieutenant was heading, Fisher keyed a new query to the workstation. “Let’s see what happens when we broaden the search parameters a bit.” Both men said nothing as they waited for the computer to process the request, though the doctor felt his pulse beginning to quicken in anticipation. You know what it’s going to say.

Then the screen displayed the results.

“Both sets of samples share traits with the carrier wave?” Xiong said, his eyes wide with astonishment. “How did we miss that?”

“You didn’t,” Fisher said, tapping the screen. “The similarities are so remote that the computer needed a third set of data to help with triangulating anything. It’s not so much that the samples themselves are similar. The carrier wave is the key to both.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Of course, I have no idea why that is.”

“It’s still a huge step forward,” Xiong said, a broad grin brightening his features. “Don’t you understand? The carrier wave might be the very cipher we’ve been looking for: the biometric key that can help us understand how that thing we fought on Erilon was able to interface with the technology there.” Xiong’s smile seemed to widen. “You may just have found a very important piece to this puzzle, Doctor.”

And how about that,Fisher mused, unable to resist returning the smile. Still a few tricks in this old dog yet.“The question now,” he said, “is what do we do about it?”

Both men looked up to the sound of a bosun’s whistle—rather, the computer-generated version of one, anyway—filtering through the intercom system.

“ Desai to Dr. Fisher.”

Reaching to the workstation’s comm unit, the doctor opened the frequency. “Fisher here. What can I do for you, Captain?” His eyes widening in realization, he looked toward the chronometer mounted on the nearby bulkhead. “Did I miss our lunch? I just need twenty min—”

“ No, that’s not it,”Desai interrupted. “ Actually, I’m calling to cancel. I need some time…to myself. I’ve got some…stuff to process.”Fisher frowned as he listened to the tone of his friend’s voice. He imagined Desai sitting in the solitude of her office, slumped in her chair with her head in her hands.

He looked over to Xiong, and the lieutenant merely nodded as he stepped away from the workstation. “I can get started reviewing this new material,” he offered in a low voice. “I’ll be in my lab if you need me.” Excusing himself, he gathered his belongings before exiting the morgue. Fisher smiled as he watched the younger man go, part of him envious that Xiong would now get to spend an inordinate amount of time pursuing the puzzle they had only just begun to pursue together.

Lucky bastard.

“Rana,” he said as the doors slid shut, leaving him alone in the room, “something you want to talk about?” He considered terminating the conversation and going to her. If she indeed had something troubling she wanted to talk about, it would be better for her to do so face-to-face with someone she could trust.

“ No,”she said, her response coming almost too fast. A moment later, she added, “ Zeke, I talked to Diego.”

Zeke? Then thisis serious.

“I see,” he said, leaning back in his chair. Folding his arms across his chest, he reached up to stroke his beard. “Not to pry,” he said, “but are you all right?”

“ It’s nothing like that,”Desai replied. “ It’s just, well, work stuff. Diego told me…told me about some things he thought I should know. It’s a little…overwhelming.”

“Ah,” Fisher offered in return.

Reyes had briefed her into the project, he realized. While he was sure the commodore had told her only those aspects of the station’s true mission which were necessary to keep her from compromising the security of that assignment—a measure he also had taken with the doctor himself—Fisher knew that even such a limited amount of information was in all likelihood more than Desai would ever wantto know.

“If it helps,” he said after a moment, “I felt the same way when he told me. Don’t worry about lunch. We can always reschedule. Open invitation, and all that.”

“ First chance I get, Fish,”Desai said, and Fisher already could hear a lift in her voice. “ I promise. I just need to do some mental filing today, is all.”

Hating the distance imposed by the impersonal communications system, Fisher sighed. “Absolutely, Rana,” he said, hoping his words offered the support he wanted to convey. “And, for what it’s worth?”